


La collina dei Ciliegi

by Leliwen (Leli)



Series: Ciliegi - ITA & ENG [2]
Category: Trust (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, If you want - Freeform, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Pre-Relationship, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Sort Of, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leli/pseuds/Leliwen
Summary: Berto seemed terrified of that young man who, like everyone in that field of sunflowers, was playing a part. Except that Paul didn't realize what part he was playing until Primo turned to face him from the roof of the alfetta, the rifle still smoking, and a half smile hidden by mustache.
Relationships: John Paul Getty III & Primo Nizzuto
Series: Ciliegi - ITA & ENG [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181273
Kudos: 5





	La collina dei Ciliegi

**Author's Note:**

> That's it, Primo can't get out of my mind. So, here I am, again.  
> The song that follows the evolution of the story is La collina dei ciliegi (The Hill of Cherry Trees) by Lucio Battisti ( you can listen, for example, here: https://youtu.be/ODF- bsMqtkY). I chose it for various reasons: the text; the fact that it came out, and immediately became a hit, in 1974; the fact that it is part of Battisti's most "hippie" album.  
> I'm really sorry for my english...

_E se davvero tu vuoi vivere una vita luminosa e più fragrante  
Cancella col coraggio quella supplica dagli occhi(1)_

A slap. A violent one.

“Mi dovesse scusare.”(2)

Don Salvatore knew that tone. It was common for so many of his subordinates. But in Primo's mouth it took on a different flavor. May be it was because of his eyes. Primo's lips said one thing, his eyes told another. Don Salvatore wasn’t a fool: he knew perfectly well that in Primo's blood flowed the same hunger that fueled his own power, which had fueled his brother's anger. But Primo's eyes were his mother's eyes. The eyes of a wolf. Eyes that never bowed. Dangerous eyes, till the last glimmer of life.

Even more dangerous when they were absent, like now.

To defuse Primo Don Salvatore needed Leonardo. Faithful, practical, solid Leonardo.

“Continua.”(2)

_Troppo spesso la saggezza è solamente la prudenza più stagnante  
E quasi sempre dietro la collina è il sole(1)_

Primo was the only person in the whole world that was able to make Leonardo lose his temper.

When Primo was orphaned, Don Salvatore had somehow entrusted Leonardo to take care about the boy. But Primo was not like the other Nizzutos. He had something wild, unapproachable, incomprehensible. Something dangerous.

Nervous.

Dealing with Primo was like having to dance on the ledge of a skyscraper. More terrifying than thrilling. If he could have choose, he would have preferred to enjoy the show from distance, far from the abyss.

And after Leonardo had spent days trying to smoothe Don Salvatore on the Roman question, what was Primo doing? He decided to kidnap the Getty boy. Without consulting anyone.

And he had the courage to come in and provoke him like that!

“Povera mugghiera toia.”(2)

Drugged, piece of shit, don't you dare bring up Regina. You'll get us all killed. And Don Salvatore was indulging him. Because to count for something in Italy, you have to become a kidnapper. Of a fucking Getty, fucking world.

_Ma perché tu non ti vuoi azzurra e lucente  
Ma perché tu non vuoi spaziare con me  
Volando intorno la tradizione  
Come un colombo intorno a un pallone frenato  
E con un colpo di becco  
Bene aggiustato, forarlo e lui giù, giù, giù(1)_

Paul knew he had a bad instinct. With the women he fell in love with, with the friends he trusted. Bad, bad instinct. But he had really thought that in some way he could trust Berto.

Because he had that good-natured air, that affable way of behaving, even when he asked to be paid. He always found an agreement.

Paul had believed that in Italy, far from his father and from the infinite grief towards the one they both loved, in Italy he could be happy again. He thought he could fool them all: all those who looked at him and only saw his wealthy family; all his family who had turned their backs on him as if his reeling around the world wasn't their problem too; all those who thought him a fool, a good for nothing, an exhibition object.

He always had the wrong people around him. People who didn’t like even trying to take flight, break the mold, live above everything. See their problems crash to the ground, away from them.

_E noi ancora, ancor più su  
Planando sopra boschi di braccia tese  
Un sorriso che non ha  
Né più un volto, né più un'età(1)_

The first impression he had of Primo had been breathtaking.

Primo was dressed in sky blue. He wore his hair long, it brushed his neck. The partially unbuttoned shirt showed a myriad of chains, he had more jewels than Martine.

A cool guy from the good part of Rome.

But the heart had begun to beat madly. Berto seemed terrified of that young man who, like everyone in that field of sunflowers, was playing a part. Except that Paul didn't realize what part he was playing until Primo turned to face him from the roof of the alfetta, the rifle still smoking, and a half smile hidden by mustache.

And in that half smile Paul was lost.

What was he doing there? Why had Berto left him to that scary man? What was the pulse he felt towards Primo, the chain started from his chest and attracted him to that dangerous being?

He knew it was useless, he knew there was no hope, but he had to go, run away from Primo’s face distorted by anger while he strangled Berto with the rope that had been around Paul’s wrists a moment before. A timeless monster that drank from the lives of the degenerates around him.

And Paul was no less guilty than Berto, or the driver.

In the end he had landed in his arms anyway. Primo’s face had regained his human features, hardened by that mocking smile.

“Sìi ’n atleta.”(2) the cool guy from the good part of Rome had mocked him. But he wasn't a cool guy, and he wasn't from the good part of Rome.

And Paul had found himself in a trunk, wedged between two corpses, during a journey as long as a lifetime.

_E respirando brezze che dilagano su terre senza limiti e confini  
Ci allontaniamo e poi ci ritroviamo più vicini  
E più in alto e più in là  
Se chiudi gli occhi un istante  
Ora figli dell'immensità(1)_

Taking the cocaine from Primo's hands made him dizzy. At least this time Dante hadn't giggled like a hyena. The game with the lighter had sent chills down his spine.

Now, however, the need for that dose, the warmth of Primo's hands, those wild eyes fixed on him… he had no idea what it was about but he felt himself falling forward. A dangerous fascination.

Behind Primo, Angelo and Dante looked like two mythological figures, half hidden in the half-light. Angelo's voice translating Primo's words sounded like that of a pythia granting an oracle of the god and Dante was his keeper.

What would he have done if Primo had reached out his hand, had intertwined those fingers between his red curls, and pulled him close. The oracle and the guardian would have remained there, they would have witnessed the dismemberment of his limbs under the attack of the god. Or would they turn their heads, too disgusted by Paul's condescension?

But Primo hadn't touched him. He had asked him to entertain them and tell them stories.

And somewhere his brain was telling him to not grant anything, to not expose himself, but Primo's eyes didn’t leave him for a moment and demanded answers.

The god now knew all about his postulant, but he knew nothing about the god. Except that Primo was unattainable.

_Se segui la mia mente, se segui la mia mente  
Abbandoni facilmente le antiche gelosie  
Ma non ti accorgi che è solo la paura che inquina e uccide i sentimenti  
Le anime non hanno sesso, né sono mie(1)_

Dante was terrified.

He had seen Primo angry over time, he had seen him kill in cold blood, he knew that the newbies that Don Salvatore entrusted to him didn’t always return home. Of the last one there was left little more than ash… Primo loved to set things on fire.

Dante knew he was not one of Primo's favorites, but he was a Camorrista, one of his most trusted picciotti. He knew there were picciotti Primo looked at in a different way, he weighed them and found them interesting. Angelo was, Dante was not. But Primo cared enough for him to trust him with Getty's death. For the first time, he had entrusted him with someone's soul.

Between all Don Salvatore's sgarristi, working with Primo was an honor.

The first time Primo had paid him a compliment he had felt almost prouder than when Don Salvatore himself had not admitted him to his ranks.

But it was a roulette rolls with Death. Or at least that's what Angelo had defined him.

Angelo who had escaped with the Getty.

Shit, this time he had screw it bad.

“Un’ha cap’to.”(2) Quiet. Too quit. “Se n’hann’ajuto?”(2)

Dante had the words stuck in his throat. His hands had begun to shake.

“E come sanne’ jute?”(2) the reproach present in that too quiet tone was making his knees tremble. But falling to his knees and praying would have achieved nothing but infuriating Primo even more.

“Nullo saccio.” Wrong answer.

A roulette rolls with Death smelling of gasoline.

_No, non temere, tu non sarai preda dei venti  
Ma perché non mi dai la tua mano, perché?  
Potremmo correre sulla collina  
E fra i ciliegi veder la mattina e il giorno  
E dando un calcio ad un sasso  
Residuo d'inferno, farlo rotolar giù, giù, giù_

Leonardo was left behind. Rosaria was crying like a child. No, it was not his job to console that woman, but there was no one else.

Primo held the rifle with one hand and the hippie with the other.

Dante was collecting what was left of Angelo. He was trembling like a leaf. Not much remained of Angelo's face.

Leonardo was just an accountant. He had the place that would have been Stefano's, had he not hid in Rome, far from his family. Leonardo had nothing to do with all that violence.

The hippie was back in the trunk, Lorenzo as a passenger and Primo in the driver's seat, dark and distant eyes. Primo smelled of gunpowder, blood and death. Like a remnant of hell.

He had ordered Dante to take Angelo to the Roman coast, to Alvaro, to set him on fire so that the only recognizable thing were his shoes.

Primo didn't say a word all the way to the quarry.

Leonardo hated it when Primo drove slowly and remained silent: it meant that he was thinking, was considering what to do or deciding how to take revenge. Or maybe both. Once out of the car, Primo dragged the hippie, almost heavy, all the way up to the entrance to the quarry. Then he threw him, still tied, into the goat fountain.

_E noi ancora ancor più su  
Planando sopra boschi di braccia tese  
Un sorriso che non ha  
Né più un volto, né più un’età(1)_

Primo still felt the shape of Getty's little head in his hands, the first time he had brought him to Calabria. Thin body and small head, he could cover it almost entirely with one hand.

The warmth of his breath as he bent down to take the drug from his hands.

His bitter laugh when he was told how much his grandfather was willing to pay for his ransom.

The spite of his fingers when he passed him the cigarette.

The color of his eyes when he had killed Angelo.

The fold of his lips when he thought he was going to die.

The color of his skin as the penicillin was killing him.

Primo had never spent so much time with a prey. He wasn't that kind of predator. He doesn't care about causing pain, he doesn't give him any pleasure to kill. He does it because he has to. He does it because that's what he's been trained to do. He does it because none of Don Salvatore's men was as precise as he was.

Paul's eyes searching for his, continuously. As if he was the only one he trusted.

“Che t’ava detto?”(2) Paul’s eyes were shiny. As if they were happy, not because his nightmare was ending, but because Grandpa had given in. “They always pay in the end.”(2) And Paul’s little smile.

Primo had to get away from that little boy. Or he would end up adopting him as Leonardo had already done.

No more kidnappings. They weren't made for long relationships outside the family.

Family… after he would have to decide what to do with Stefano. And Dante. But not today.

Today it was his turn once again to save the life of his hen laying golden eggs.

_E respirando brezze che dilagano su terre senza limiti e confini  
Ci allontaniamo e poi ci ritroviamo più vicini  
E più in alto e più in là  
Ora figli dell'immensità(1)_

Snow had covered mountains and roads. The air condensed into small white puffs. It was Sunday. Mass had just ended and the town had poured into the street, at the bar. Primo was sitting at a table, a newspaper was placed next to his left hand. He still had the same haircut, the same mustache. But he wore a very elegant camel coat(3).

Paul had never seen the village, he had always been kept in the country, away from them all. But Marcello had put him in contact with the drug dealer in Rome, and from this they had managed to get more or less the area. Paul had been looking for them, dressed in white, in his white car for almost six months.

And now Primo was there.

Not at all surprised to see him. Nobody seemed to notice the stranger dressed in white, as if they were expecting a visit from him.

With a nod, Primo invited him to sit down. And Paul obeyed.

A wave of his hand and the bartender came out with two glasses of red wine. Primo raised his hand in greeting and waited for Paul to do the same before taking a sip.

“So, do you learn italian?” he asked, in that strong accent that Paul remembered, placing the glass on the coffee table and curving his lips into a half smile.

“Giusto un poco.”(4) He replied with an equally strong accent, licking his lips.

Primo smile widened and Paul was lost in the immensity of those eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Lyrics of La collina dei ciliegi by Lucio Battisti (you can find the lyrics translation here: https://lyricstranslate.com/en/la-collina-dei-ciliegi-hill-cherry-trees.html )  
> (2) dialogues from the TV series: for some of them I went by heart, because using nowtv which at the moment owns the streaming of Trust in Italy for references is the most exhausting thing that you can do. Anyway, I don't know if there is a univocally accredited grammar for Calabrese, so I went to sound/sense.  
> (3) quote from Don Raffaé 'by Fabrizio De André (which you can find here: https://youtu.be/rDO7VIgomps)  
> (4) "Just a little bit."


End file.
